Bolero
by Dim Aldebaran
Summary: Bolero, def: a Spanish dance performed with sharp turns and sudden pauses, illustrative of the passion of love. Written for the NovDec Crim challenge. Starring Carla Frazetti and Artemis Fowl. Shortlisted in Best Het Romance & Best Short Fic in the OA.


B O L E R O

- Dim Aldebaran -

**:i:**

She loved the bolero. She loved the swirl and tangle of black and red, like a dream of lust. She loved the spiraling beat and the entropy of the cracking steps. She loved the slipknot descent and sudden rise of mad cadenzas, the light eddies of the dolce and the roar of the whirlpool climax.

She loved the bolero.

Just not dancing it.

There were few places outside of Spain where the bolero was 'the real deal.' Had one of these places not been in Chicago, Carla Frazetti would have seriously considered changing careers from Mafia superstar to bolero dressmaker. She refused to do business anywhere that did not have a bolero club; potential 'clients', thus, usually had to come to her. She was supposed to prefer playing hard-to-get, but she was still rather fond of traveling. How else would she have discovered the twenty great bolero clubs of the world?

Her godfather Spatz Antonelli was a man of tradition. He never held up to expanding into Eastern markets, preferring old-school black market. He never would have stolen the opium trade of the Golden Triangle from the local warlords, he never would have the rats of Hong Kong paying their dues. Carla Frazetti ruled the Mafia; after all, her godfather was getting old and… vulnerable.

She smiled as she sipped her Shiraz, a leopard-smile. She lived at the Water Tower Plaza bolero club. Literally. Her flat was right above the dance hall, so even while she was not attending a show she could hear the heavy crack of the bolero. It was quite convenient for her, though it made being fashionably late to a meeting an impossible excuse.

It didn't seem to stop her latest client from using it, but even the bolero could not distract her from the latest prospect: Pakistan. India. One flag. The Mafia flag. And someone knew how to do it. The flexible guitar cadenza heralded the entrance of that 'someone.' Over the rim of her stemless crystal she scanned, a habit welded from caution and curiosity. He had black hair, not the thick curls of the Italian but a finer variety, combed but not slicked. His face was worn, but not by age, and its fine bones were a touch too angular to be properly masculine. The delicacy was emphasized by eyes a fine shade of azure, matched by his silk shirt and framed by almost girlishly long lashes. His lips were thin and bloodless, nearly the shade of his salt-white skin, and were drawn into an impassivity. He seemed too damn young to have anyone's respect, least of all Father Antonelli's. A beardless boy was not 'old school'.

He was directed to her seat overlooking the main dance floor, taking it with casual elegance. Their eyes met; with that closer look she found herself intrigued by their quixotic quality. "Frazetti."

"Fowl."

The dance below was beginning, red dresses swirling like blood down a drain. They both turned to watch; she gave him a full view, knowing full well he would be examining her as she had him. She dressed for the sensual dark of the bolero hall: she kept the hair short and slicked back, tinted Cabernet, and her makeup was heavy, lips full and red, dark eyes lined with kohl. Perhaps her strong Italian features were too prominent to be beautiful, but they did not undermine her femininity; she had curves where it counted, and the red number she wore made sure Fowl knew it.

It finished with a thunderclap. She applauded politely; Fowl, it seemed, had his mind on business already.

"You love the bolero."

She turned from the stage, where the dancers now departed in a flurry. He disappointed her already; where was this wit she had heard about, this charm? "Of course," was her schooled response, her voice not touched but caressed with her accent. Chicago was her lair, and bolero was her love, but Carla only allowed purebloods into the inner ranks as to not dirty herself with that drunken American accent. "Bolero is the dance of passion."

It was familiar to her, after fifteen watching the masters and fifteen years playing the game. Mafia was more than family. Mafia was making contacts. She never slept with her associates, but she… hinted. She played to their egos, letting them feel a tension in their relationship, an attraction; only to stay a step away, the impossible scarlet lady. It was quite remarkable how it worked, clichéd though the idea was. Even Mafia's coldest went out of their way to make life easier for Carla Frazetti.

He kept her eyes. His manner was almost hypnotic, in a strange way, somewhat… There was no word. Only a thought and its flight with the sound of his voice: "I'm sure you know all about passion, Frazetti."

Expected. "I see." She sipped her Shiraz, keeping her façade on like a monster hiding from the world with its mask. "And how would you know such a thing about one such as I?"

He accepted a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon from the server with grace, his eyes never leaving Carla's. "We millionaires—may I assume billionaires?—are all alike." He paused; she sipped her Shiraz, breaking eye contact to listen to a flute playing _Carmen Fantasie_, notes slipping out like silvered words.

He continued, knowing full well he had her attention. "We were all special as children, one way or another. It is foolish to deny that gold is in our blood.

"Our experiences as children mold who we are; if we are 'special,' these experiences will be markedly different. However, with this difference, there are often… problems." He sipped his Cabernet thoughtfully.

His question was so subtle, so… sophisticated, she nearly considered answering. "I suppose growing up sleeping with a gun beneath the pillow may be considered 'special'," she replied, "but not all of us are geniuses. Some are just lucky."

Below, bolero dancers twirled and turned, their scarves petals falling from red red roses.

He considered her over the rim of the stemless glass. She felt oddly… _stupid_, as she had not felt since she was a child. "Mafia is a family establishment, no? In the family, marriages are controlled. No 'bad' genes are allowed in. The patriarch protects the holdings, and he keeps the Mafia strong. The matriarch protects the children, keeping the lineage strong—she arranges the marriages." He considered his Cabernet and its bloody depths. "However, Mother Antonelli is… _gone_."

He knew. Her breath caught. Mother Antonelli had had no children, she had only wanted 'the best' for her daughter, she had tried to keep her from the business, she had tried to make her marry a Mafia husband so she could have little Mafia babies, she had tried to take her life away—

He continued, his omnipotence godlike. "What makes Mafia children so successful is _in _their DNA—in their blood, as a poet might say. Their environment is the result of that DNA in their parents, in their relatives, following the path their genes mold them to."

"Are you saying Mafia is a fate?" she queried, sipping her wine as she tried to steer the conversation onto safer grounds.

He smiled condescendingly, accepting the redirection, and raised his glass for a toast. She could not help but answer it. Their crystal glasses tinkled before he responded: "'Fate' is a matter of personal preference. Is the universe moral or amoral?"

She smiled, despite herself. "Mafia children are not Fowl children; we aren't weaned on Descartes. Our education is hardly classical."

"Hardly public either."

Carla took another sip to hide her smile. She was losing control of it all, she, heir to the Antonelli name, to a shrink who could be her niece's boy.

Strangely enough, she didn't mind. "We digress," she tried.

His brow raised. His face was still that damnable default, that impassivity—but there was a smile beneath the vampiric mask, the icy eyes, there, _there_, waiting. "Yet we do not care."

"No," she murmured, "we don't." Below was the bolero, swift and strong, lucid crimson swirling into a tangle of passion. Gone were thoughts of business—_we can deal with that another time, another place_…

Artemis looked down at the bolero. A man, ruggedly handsome as most Spanish seem to manage, stepped out, and clicked out the cadence, slow, slow, steady, with his heels. The women spun sharp 180s with each snap, each move articulate.

"I know why you love the bolero now," he whispered below the snap and swirl of the guitar. He sipped from his glass, watching the dancers below. "So controlled, so intense… yet so emotional. The expression is so clear, their movements so passionate, yet their faces remain impassive to it all."

She pondered the dancers as they brought the bolero to the climax. She had never dared dance it before, never dared to let her hair fly out as she let the dance take her.

Artemis watched her over his glass, icy eyes suddenly not so cold, not so formidable.

God, she loved the bolero.

"To business," she responded, and turned with a tight smile. "I'd like to know how you plan on dealing with Pakistan."

Just not dancing it.

**:i:**

This has been edited by the impossibly cool White Lily; check out her story "His Son's Father." Very cool. Recommended for the Orion Awards, too.

Anywho, hope you like it. The type of bolero alluded to this is obviously not the Latino type developed in Central and South America; this is the hardcore stuff. So to speak.

And _everyone _should listen to a bolero song or two; I recommend Emile Pessard's _Bolero_ for flute, or the original dance number whose-composer-I-can't-seem-to-remember.


End file.
